The Dressmaker (33 page)

Twilight was deepening as Pinky climbed on the train and headed back to New York, exhausted from arguing with Van Anda. So maybe it looked like a story about two sailors who hated each other and one idiot. And, yes, her source for the earlier bribery story had turned his story inside out. But Bonney had confirmed it, so it wasn’t wrong. He was by far the more believable on the stand, with much to lose. Why would he say that he thought people were pushed off unless it was true? Watch out, you’re trying too hard to make Bonney a hero, Van Anda said. Keep the focus on the fact that he and Sullivan were calling each other liars. Are you sure you saw lawyers? Prove it. Follow up tomorrow, and get home and get some sleep. “The Lowe piece was great,” he threw in before hanging up. She slumped back into her seat, worried. Was she losing perspective? She had to quit thinking about who got hurt and who didn’t. Her job was to report the facts, even when her instincts intervened. But it wasn’t always easy to choose between the two.

Pinky tucked her bunched-up coat under her head and closed her eyes. Van Anda was right; she’d better get some rest. She had a job to do, and it didn’t include worrying about Bonney. She had to get some groceries as soon as she got home, and if she was late tonight the long-suffering Mrs. Dotson would have her hand out again for more money.

FLATIRON DISTRICT
NEW YORK CITY
THURSDAY MORNING, APRIL 25

N
o reporters were hovering at the entrance as Lucile and Elinor walked quickly through the front door to the elevator. Lucile punched the up button with relief.

“I can’t stay long—I have an appointment with my hairstylist,” Elinor said as they rumbled up to the top floor. “I don’t know why you wanted me here today, anyway.”

“Your hair is more important than my business? Really, Elinor.”

“Your timing is good, I’ll say. Right in the middle of Jordan Darling’s funeral.”

“Exactly. All the reporters are there. I’ve been away from here long enough; I can’t afford to hide anymore. Thank goodness I didn’t have to walk through the usual hordes. You can leave anytime you want; I’m back on familiar ground now.”

“Madame,” said James in surprise, lifting his head from a worktable filled with a jumble of hats and gloves and jewelry—all necessary accessories for the show. Next to him was Tess, her mouth filled with pins, on her knees fitting a skirt on a model.

“Well, I see you two are keeping busy,” Lucile said with a bright
smile. “James, get rid of that awful green concoction.” She pointed a finger at one of the hats. “The color is atrocious. Looks like bile.”

“Yes, Madame. Good to have you back, Madame.”

Tess had managed to remove the pins from her mouth as she stood up. “It’s good to see you,” she said warmly.

“How is your new flat, dear? Didn’t Cosmo move quickly?”

“It’s wonderful, and I’m very grateful.” Grateful? Thrilled, was more like it. That wonderful, tiny flat on Fifth Avenue—so sparse, so plain, but hers alone. A pot, a couple of cups, and two dishes on the tiny kitchen counter; the first thing she had done was make herself some tea. She was on the payroll now, being paid for her work, and soon she would be paying for that flat. And then she would bring Mother over from England and they would make curtains together and she would begin to be part of a world she could call her own.

“Where is the wedding gown?”

Lucile’s voice snapped her back to reality. “Over here, on the table—I’ve finished the repairs,” Tess said. Lucile began inspecting the gown, and Tess felt a flutter of fear in her stomach. James was stepping back; two of the models were watching Lucile warily. The seamstress on the nearest sewing machine had stopped work.

Lucile lifted the skirt with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length, eyes narrowed. “Where is the underskirt?” she demanded.

“It was torn and I took it off; this makes the skirt flow better,” Tess said.

“And what have you done to the bodice?”

“It had to be changed—it was torn, too.” She was stumbling, speaking too fast.

First, silence, as Lucile turned the dress over and stared at the bodice.

“What have you done?”
she finally said. Her hoarse, throaty challenge carried through the shop. “I have a major show in the offing—and
you
have tampered with my showpiece design, the one that would have been the talk of the town. And now,
now
—” She dropped the dress back onto the table. “Now it is just the amateur work of a beginner who might be good at stitching up torn garments but who knows
nothing
about the aesthetics of design!”

Tess grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself, afraid she might fall. Her voice was shaky and thin. “I did what I thought needed to be done to salvage your wonderful gown. There were only a few necessary changes, but I tried to stay true to your vision. Let the model put it on and you’ll see.”

Lucile glared at her. “Don’t give me that nonsense. You took a Lucile creation and made it your own.”

“What are you complaining about?” Elinor murmured, touching Lucile’s sleeve. “You can see the girl salvaged a badly damaged gown—what else could she do? Watch out, the mood here isn’t as deferential as usual. Haven’t you noticed?”

Lucile shrugged off her sister’s hand. “Here”—she nodded at one of the models and handed her the gown—“put this thing on so I can see the extent of the damage.” She stalked over to the runway, pointing a finger at James. “When she’s buttoned in, tell her to walk this way,” she directed.

James went running to give the instructions to the model, pausing as he passed Tess. “You did a good job,” he whispered. “Whatever she says.”

It was a timid endorsement, but Tess was grateful. She watched Lucile’s expression as the model walked toward her, the gorgeous gown swirling and floating around her legs. It was still true to the basics of Lucile’s design. But Lucile said nothing, and her stony expression didn’t change. Of course, she wouldn’t like it; there was no way she could cede that to Tess.

“Why didn’t you reverse the side seams, for heaven’s sake?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“It no longer qualifies as the centerpiece of my collection, I’m afraid.”

Tess’s cheeks burned scarlet. She might have the staff’s sympathy, but that would not get her through this.

“You still have quite a bit to learn, you know.”

“I don’t deny that.”

“Don’t try anything this audacious again.”

Again, that odd, poised feeling of being on the brink of something. Tess held her breath.

Lucile suddenly stood, brushing off her skirt briskly. “It will have to do. Tess, do something you’re capable of doing. Start steaming the nettings on the hats, will you? They are dreadfully wrinkled.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Only a few days to the show, everybody,” Lucile called out, clapping her hands as she marched into her office. “Let’s get busy!”

“Lucile, can we talk?” Tess said as the two women stepped out onto the sidewalk at the end of the day.

“I am much too tired from fixing the damage around here for idle chatter.” Lucile would not so much as look at her.

“I did my best to help. I’m sorry it wasn’t good enough.”

Lucile stared at the waiting car, her jaw held stiffly. “Be at the shop by eight in the morning,” she said.
“And do not call me by my first name.”
With that, and with a blank-faced Farley holding the door, Lady Duff Gordon stepped in without looking back.

Tess jiggled the key in the door of her apartment, desperate for it to open. It had been a day of not only steaming hat nettings but pressing hems, mopping up spills, discarding baskets of fabric scraps—anything that did not involve picking up a needle, cutting patterns, or adjusting fittings. Nothing beyond what a maid would do. All this, to prove to everyone in Lucile’s loft that Madame was still in charge, that she was the designer—as if anyone doubted that. Tess had tried her best, tried to salvage a great design, and her work was wanting. Would she always be wanting?

The key turned. Miraculously, the door opened as it was supposed to, and Tess stepped into her refuge. Turn on a light; close the door. With relief, she leaned against the doorframe. She had worn her servant mask today, and, oh, how hard it was to breathe through. Once, she had looked up from picking fabric scraps off the floor and
seen Lucile staring at her with that unreadable expression in her eyes she had seen before. Something different from anger, something she had briefly hoped would make her employer reachable.

Tess walked over to the cupboard, smoothing her hand over the rough-hewn surface of the table as she passed. No word yet from Jim. Let it go, let it go. Surely he would have managed to contact her by now if he had wanted to. She was on her own.

She took a deep breath and looked around. If she wanted this, if this small flat was truly to be a route to a new independence, she had to figure out what it was that Lucile intended for her. Everyone around her molded themselves to whatever shape she demanded in the moment. How could you know who you were, what you could do? Was Lucile’s shop a place of promise or just another form of servitude? Was she slipping into the same artful dodging of those who fawned over the great Madame? She felt suddenly bone-weary. She would work hard and well; that was all she could do. Her thoughts wandered back to Jim. Where was he on this dreary night? If she closed her eyes she could imagine herself with him in a horse-drawn carriage, feel his arm holding her close. She wished now that she had sent a message, and wondered why she hadn’t.

A pot of water on to boil. A bit of tea, sipped by the window, looking out on the street. She began to calm down. Enough, in fact, to realize that she had no food for her meal. There was a market down the block that she had passed coming home. That was worth one more trip out. Tess finished her tea and picked up her purse, feeling a little better. At least right now this was her haven, and she had the key.

The butcher at the meat counter held up a limp-looking chicken and a leg of mutton. “Which one?” he said. They were apparently her only choices, and Tess pointed to the mutton, hoping the oven in her flat worked. She wandered over to the vegetable bins and picked up a few potatoes, then some bread. It felt good to be getting her own supplies.
Some fruit would be nice, but the apples looked a bit shriveled and she hesitated, her hand hovering over one of them.